


A matter of choice

by Christine_Erin_Keyson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gunshot Wounds, Heavy Angst, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sherlock Holmes, M/M, Major Character Injury, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27647755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christine_Erin_Keyson/pseuds/Christine_Erin_Keyson
Summary: He's trembling hard by the time it's over. The words run out, everything of importance said. Except... Maybe he forgot to mention how sick he's feeling by now.Not important. Not really.It was necessary to go through certain matters first. Necessary to sort out Watson's marriage. To fix it. At least he tried. Because John loved her, still. He chose her. And who is Sherlock to question that?It was of higher importance than his well-being. John is important. The most important. John. John... Anything for John.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson (mentioned), Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following story is fictional. The characters belong to Sherlock BBC and their original inspirational world to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. It's a fanfiction, the story may differ from the canon. I don't earn money from my writings, and they only ever have an entertainment purpose.

He's trembling hard by the time it's over. The words run out, everything of importance said. Except... Maybe he forgot to mention how sick he's feeling by now.

Not important. Not really.

It was necessary to go through certain matters first. Necessary to sort out Watson's marriage. To fix it. At least he tried. Because John loved her, still. He chose her. And who is Sherlock to question that?  
It was of higher importance than his well-being. John is important. The most important. John. John... Anything for John.

He reminds himself that as John's eyes widen in panic as Sherlock collapses, falling from the chair. His knees hit the floor with a breathy whisper: "... Eight minutes..."

The ambulance should be there anytime. Unless... Unless he didn't call it.

Did he?

Stupid. So stupid. Since when did he let his transport rule over his head? Pathetic. Weak. How could he forget? Dizzy with starting fever, blinded by pain. He thought he called the ambulance anyway, he really did.

"Might... Want to call one now, by the way. I believe I'm bleeding internally and..."

He stops, panting. John takes his arm, feeling his pulse above his wrist. He guides him to fully lie down onto the floor, his other hand cradling his head, threading through the curls, wet and sticky with sweat. His face is full of concern as he switches to his doctor mode and orders Rosamund aka Mary Watson to call 999.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, you have to stay with me, alright? Focus on my voice. That's it. Deep breaths, don't you dare to fall asleep."

"Meant to... Call the ambulance. Forgot. S-sorry, John."

"Idiot." The good doctor accuses him fondly and swipes a strand of his wild hair off of his forehead, gently caressing him. Softly, so softly that Sherlock feels tears running along his cheekbones from the feeling. Or maybe it's the pain. Irrelevant. John wipes the tears with his thumb, and the detective leans into the touch, closing his eyes.

John. John is here. Everything is better when John is here.

"Hey. Open your eyes, you madman."

He obeys. Of course he does, how could he not, it's John. He obeys, always, because it's John and only a fool argues with his doctor. His doctor. His John.

His view is shaky and dancing and SPOTS, but it has John in it, so he remains focused on those blue eyes.

"Right. You're doing good."

A wave of complete agony runs through him and Sherlock whimpers. It's wrong. Sherlock Holmes does not whimper. Except he does, but John takes his hand in his, and it's so warm and so JOHN it calms him down immediately.

"You should have told me, you do realize that? I'm an idiot. I should have noticed."

"Not i-important." 

" Not... Sherlock! Of course it's bloody important."

" Have to... Trust Mary. "

" Forget Mary. Who the fuck cares about her. You're bleeding out. Much more urgent, that."

" But you... Chose her... "

His transport fails him the exact same moment the words leave his lips, and his heart decides it's had enough and stops. He loses consciousness to John's voice calling his name.


	2. Chapter 2

The beeping is annoying, even more than the last time. His head feels funny, blood pumping hard in his temples and pulsing through his body, bringing pain, pain, pain.

There's a plastic something in his mouth, and it feels horrible. The thing is important, he thinks, trying to remember its name.

God, his thoughts are so SLOW. 

Is this how it feels living everyday life with an average mind? How do people stand it? It's utterly awful.

There's something warm around his icy hand, and it's drawing soothing circles, caressing his knuckles. A thumb, fingers. Another hand. Not his, definitely not his, but it's gentle and calming, the thing it does. Has to be John, he decides as he carefully opens his eyelids and groans as the paws of the red angry Satan outside hit his pupils. He blinks the light away and focuses on the good doctor sitting by his side.

A gurgling sound. Right, no talking with the breathing tube. Breathing tube! That's what it does.

He blinks and blinks and blinks, and John smiles at him, and it's a rare kind of sunshine, a kind one, not like the blinding sun forcing its way through the window.

"Hey there."

Sherlock gurgles again, and his doctor chuckles.

"Don't talk. The tube stays for a while this time. " John squeezes his hand. "As well as you're staying in the hospital for a while, this time. You're never allowed a room with a window again, by the way." 

Sherlock scoffs. His eyes focus on John, a desperate steel melting with every second, dissolving because of the warmth of his doctor's smile.

"You madman. Never ever do anything like this again. Ever."

His chest feels like it's consumed by ice and on fire at the same time. Do what?

"You scared me a big-time... Idiot. You could have died. I thought I lost you. Again."

Aah. That's what he's supposed to avoid doing, then. Dying. Scaring John. He didn't mean to, really. But his transport is a traitor—weak, pathetic thing.

The blond ex-soldier brushes the untamed curls off of his forehead, then he leans over and presses a chaste, sweet kiss there. Sherlock's eyes widen, and he would definitely stop breathing if the tube thing wasn't doing that for him since... For a while, it seems.

"I chose her because I thought I lost you. I believed you were dead and either way you never seemed interested in that kind of thing, anyway... Doesn't matter. You were dead. Mary was there, and she's been exactly what I needed. And then you came back, and god, I've been so pissed with you. But I still love you. Always did. Probably always will. There's no way I'll forgive a woman whose name I don't even know, apparently, nearly killing you."

Sherlock makes a noise, and John shakes his head in the answer. They were always good at communicating without words.

"No. Don't argue. Don't you dare. Your heart stopped. You were pronounced dead. You've been without a pulse for minutes. She knew the possible outcome. So no, I'm not gonna trust her."

He traces his fingers over one of the sharp cheekbones, and his deep blue eyes never leave Sherlock's ocean ones.

" Your heart also stopped after you ran from the hospital, still not recovered and weak as a kitten, trying to fix my broken and invalid marriage. I had to keep it pumping. I had to force my air into your lungs and god, never make me do that again. I almost lost you. For what? For a liar who put a bullet in you? For a woman I don't even love, not half as much as I love you? Christ, Sherlock. It's not worth it. Don't... "

He isn't able to continue, and he hides his face into Sherlock's hip. The detective feels hot tears tickling his bare skin. He wants to stop them, to make them go away, to soothe the man he loves with his whole soul. But he can't talk, so there's not really much comfort available.

He gently takes John's left hand and presses it against his chest, over his frantically, but steadily beating heart. He draws the words into his skin, and he knows the man will understand. He always does. 

That's why they are meant for each other.

John chuckles, dry and desperate, then he takes his wrist and softly kisses his pulse point, his knuckles and each of the slender, musician's fingers.

"I will always choose you from now on, if you let me."

And really, John must be so dumb if he says it like that. How could Sherlock not?


End file.
